Authors: Frank Hughes
The ride to New York
City was long and uncomfortable. Briggs drove, even though he was clearly
senior, which didn't speak well of Stanton's driving skills. They stopped once
at the Thruway rest stop in Suffern to get themselves some coffee and let me
pee. Stanton insisted on handcuffing me to the urinal. He learned a valuable life
lesson about strategic positioning when I pissed on his shoes.
A combination of
accidents and construction made the Tappan Zee crossing, normally about three
minutes, take an hour and a half. Things just went downhill from there. By the
time we arrived in lower Manhattan, it was after 10:00 AM. Briggs pulled into a
secure underground parking lot and we rode the elevator to the twenty-third
floor of 26 Federal Plaza, where the New York field office of the FBI is
located. When we entered the bullpen, all activity seemed to stop and everyone
froze.
“Why is that man in
handcuffs?” said John Roma, the words coming in a staccato burst.
“I-we,” said Briggs.
“Take them off,” said
Roma.
John Roma was not a
large man. In fact, he was less than average height, but his slight build only
accentuated his large head, giving him an oddly commanding presence. His
Italian heritage was clear in the wiry black hair combed straight back and the
big features of his long face. A pair of reading glasses was affixed -
permanently, legend held - to his large fleshy nose. He was peering balefully
over the half lenses at Stanton, who was frantically digging out his cuff key.
Briggs just stood there trying to figure out what he’d missed. Roma turned on
him, pointing at the manila envelope in Briggs’ hand.
“Are those his effects?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give them to me.” Roma
took the envelope and looked from one to the other. “What were you two
thinking, treating this man in this way?”
I rubbed my wrists while
Briggs and Stanton wilted under his glare. Just at the point I expected them
both to burst into flames, Roma turned to me and asked in a pleasant voice,
“Some coffee before we get started?”
“I'm fine,” I said, not
sure what was going on.
“Please join me in my
office,” he said, turning. Then he stopped and turned back to look at my
chagrined captors. “Alone, please.”
“Sorry, boys,” I said.
I followed Roma through
an office that was a lot like the offices I’d worked in, except everyone here
wore that smug, superior look that was FBI standard issue. At Customs,
especially after a couple of years at the airport literally sorting through
people’s shit, we had a more realistic understanding of our place in the world.
Roma's office was
comfortable and well furnished, as befit his status. He rated a solid oak desk,
plush carpeting, very comfortable chairs, and a combination bookcase and awards
cupboard. Most of the trophies on display were for marksmanship, so I decided
to mind my manners.
“Close the door and take
a seat,” he said, his tone suddenly frosty.
There were two chairs
fronting his desk, one of which was occupied by my overnight bag. He dropped
the envelope in front of him and sat down. I took my seat, noticing he was
positioned so the window backlit him, making his face unreadable. Very Bond
villain; I half expected to see a cat in his lap.
While we stared at each
other, I recalled a New York Magazine piece I’d read about him. Born and raised
in Brooklyn, most of his childhood friends went on to become hoodlums. Strict
Catholic parents and even stricter Jesuit instructors at Xavier High School
kept him on the straight and narrow. Like an appreciable number of agents
across all of federal law enforcement, Roma attended Fordham University in the
Bronx. However, unlike the rest of us peasants, he went on a full scholarship.
He graduated magna cum laude and moved on to Fordham Law. Before the ink was
dry on his degree, he applied to the FBI.
His knowledge of the New
York underworld got him assigned to the Organized Crime Task Force, combating
the Mob in New York and New Jersey. He did the job well, but, more to his
benefit, he avoided the spotlight, allowing his own superiors and the U.S.
Attorney to take credit for his successes. The bad guys knew who was responsible,
though. One capo took the unusual and unauthorized step of putting out a
contract on him. Roma killed the two would be assassins in a legendary shootout
on the docks in Red Hook. Shortly thereafter, the capo that ordered the hit
washed up on the beach at Ship Bottom, New Jersey in two different suitcases.
Despite his high profile
job, he remained an enigma. No one was even quite sure where he lived. Not a
breath of scandal ever touched him, yet he dressed in bespoke suits and wore a
gold Rolex. Conventional wisdom centered on him being a lucky bastard who had
inherited money from a rich relative. My guess was that Roma was a gambler, and
his casino was Wall Street, where he bet big and won big. The cash only policy
was probably just a security measure.
“What can I do for you,
John?” I said.
“You will address me as
Director. And you can shut up and wait until I tell you to speak.”
“What, no more Mr. Nice
Guy?” I pointed at the door. “What was that all about?”
“I don't explain myself
to you.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Karen Schultz told you to back off.”
“Well, it was more of
a-”
“She told you to back
off. And that it was coming from me. That should have been enough.”
“Apparently she didn't
make herself clear.”
“I remember you,” he
said, sitting back in his chair, “and I know your reputation. You have a real
bad attitude.”
“It's just a little
one.”
“Shut up.” He held up
thumb and forefinger with very little light between them. “I am this close to
sticking you in a cell for the duration.”
“Duration of what? What
the hell is going on?”
“You tell me. What
happened up there?”
“Stuff yourself. I want
a lawyer.”
He looked at me over the
top of those damn glasses, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Lawyers? You
think you rate a lawyer? If I say the word, you’ll be out of here in ten
minutes with a black hood over your head. Next stop, McGuire Air Force Base.
After that, who knows?”
“Really? We’re rendering
American citizens now?” I shook my head in disgust. “What has this country come
to?”
“You should talk, my friend.
Besides, none of that happens unless you make it happen. I don’t care about
your two corpses. This is off the record. Tell me what happened and we’re
square.”
I weighed my options and
found none, so I told him the whole story. When I was finished, he stared at me
without moving for a long while.
“If you were being
followed in Seattle,” he said, finally, “that speaks of a large organization
and plenty of manpower.”
“Not necessarily. I told
you there was someone on the plane.”
“Think, Craig. You flew first
class. You told me yourself you used a carry on. In Seattle I bet you went
straight for the rental car, and when you got back to Newark, the Air Train. If
your tail was flying coach, explain how he didn’t lose you at either end.”
I was out of practice.
He was right. If he was back in coach, how could he get off the plane fast
enough to follow me. And back in Newark I was in the last car of the Air Train,
where I would have seen him coming up the escalator. There must have been
operatives in place at both ends.
“While you’re thinking
about that, ask yourself how he knew what flight you were on coming back from
Seattle. When did you change it?”
“The night before.”
“That means they have
access to airline manifests. You’re outclassed, Craig. Whatever you’re into,
there’s a big organization behind it. They knew you were looking for the boy
from the start.”
“And used me as a bird
dog.”
“Because they couldn’t
find Roger. They left Epstein alive and under surveillance.”
“Gambling that Roger
would eventually come to him for help.”
“When Boyd hired you to
find his son, they figured why not see if you could kick something loose.”
I nodded. “They didn’t
realize Roger was already there, hiding in plain sight, just another employee
at the publishing house.”
“But when they saw him
talking to you yesterday afternoon they put two and two together.
“And the hit man
following me got the go ahead. They didn’t need Epstein anymore, so they shot
him, too.”
“Face it, Craig. Your
job is done. The boy is dead.”
“Then why not kill me?
Once they had Roger and Epstein, I was expendable.”
“They did try.”
“Only when I chased
them. They left me alone at the warehouse. Why not kill me if my usefulness is
over. The boy might still be alive.”
“I can’t have you
muddying the waters of this investigation.”
“I'm looking for missing
kids.”
“You need to get right
on this. Back off, or I will have you put in detention.”
“Very ethical, John.
Nice to see that Jevvy training wasn't wasted.
“Who said you could call
me John? It’s Director Roma.”
“Sure thing. John.”
“Look,” he said, “have
you thought this through? If you do continue, and you do find the boy, you’ll
lead them right to him and get him killed, just like Roger and Epstein.”
While I thought about
that, he opened the folder he'd been holding earlier.
“Richard Imperatrice was
your old boss at Customs, wasn’t he?”
The change of subject
caught me by surprise. “At one time.”
Roma closed the file and
folded his hands on top of it.
“Must have felt odd
running into him last night.”
“Odd's not the word.”
“What do you know about
Verdugo Properties?”
“Imperatrice said they
managed high end resorts.”
He nodded. “They build
them, too. They’re part of Verdugo Industries, and he's their head of
security.”
I snorted. “He's a fuck
up.”
“He left Customs shortly
after 9/11 and started his own firm. Verdugo was his first big client. He’s
doing quite well, and the man has lots of friends in Washington. This thing is
very political.”
“I could give a shit
about politics.”
“I have to, and I can’t
have some loose cannon running around fucking up my investigation.”
“Investigation of what?”
“How haven’t I made
myself clear, Craig? I don’t answer to you.”
“Just politicians.”
He sighed and leaned
forward. “I have to move delicately. Do you have any idea who the president of
Verdugo Industries is?”
“No, and I don’t care.”
“You should. It’s Cory
Canfield.”
“Wait. What? The
Senator’s wife?”
“Exactly. Cory
Canfield’s maiden name is de Verdugo. Is the picture becoming any clearer? Do
you understand why I can’t have you stumbling around breaking the furniture?”
“I don't work for you,
Roma.”
“You don't work for
anyone anymore.”
“You think you can
strong arm Raviv Peled? Talk about having friends in high places.”
He looked down at the
desk. “You haven't heard,” he said, his voice soft.
“I’ve been dancing with
your brain trust all night. Heard what?”
He reached behind him
and picked up a copy of the New York Times.
“'Raviv Peled,” he read,
“a well-known security consultant and private investigator, was found dead early
this morning in the massage suite of a private Manhattan club. He had been
strangled. Reliable sources close to the investigation who have requested
anonymity tell the Times the body was mutilated. Peled, 67, was a former member
of Mossad, the Israeli secret intelligence service. He was long rumored to have
been a key figure in Operation Bayonet, the Israeli action against Palestinian
terrorists following the 1972 terrorist attack at the Munich Olympics that left
eleven Israeli athletes dead.”
He put the paper down
where I could reach it. I picked it up slowly and read a little bit more.
“Mutilated how?” I said,
hoarsely.
“Unofficially? He was
castrated. His genitals placed in his mouth.”
“Who?”
“No suspects, so far.
The police are leaning towards Palestinian terrorists. For his part in the
post-Munich operation.”
“Not exactly their
style.”
“The mutilation points
to a revenge killing.”
I threw the paper back
on the desk. “Well, the timing stinks.”
“How so?”
“How so?” I mimicked. “All
of a sudden, now, four decades later they come to get him? These missing kids,
Epstein, Roger, now Raviv. Kind of a big coincidence, isn't it? And where were
his bodyguards?”
“He had one with him
last night. Haven't found him yet. Or the SUV.”
I stood up. “I'll find
him.”
“You're out, Craig,” he
said. “Karen Schultz asked you, now I'm telling you. Back off.”
“And if I don't?”
“You won't have that
choice. As of now, all your accounts are frozen. Bank, credit cards, driver's
license. Your passport is invalid.”
“How am I supposed to
live?”
He tossed the manila
envelope across the desk. “That thousand or so dollars that mysteriously
appeared in your pocket should carry you for a while.”
“Did it occur to you
that if I don’t go looking for the boy they may kill me as a loose end?”
“There will be a car
outside your building twenty-four hours a day.”
“Comforting. They might
find me before I start to smell too bad.” I put the envelope in my bag and went
to the door.
“Craig.”
I stopped and turned
back to him. “What, now?”
“Raviv Peled was a
friend of mine. I know what he meant to you.” He paused. “And why.”
“You don't know
anything.”
“You would be surprised
what I am cleared for. This is for your own good. The deck is stacked.” He
paused, looked out the window for a moment before sighing and turning back to
me. “I swear to you, when this is over, I'll fill you in on everything I find.”